date number 51

Les held in a conversation for three short seconds. On a porch, actually now that I notice isn't it amazing, amazing how, (if you look up there, index finger, gesture vaguely) yeah there are so many stars, so many stars tonight? even here, like in this city and evrything. So many!

Yeah, she looks up and agrees, lots of stars tonight. A silence (could contain the always noise of three thousand years of cricketcall, but doesn't) remarks something for the city & giving a value to his observation about it. Be cause its emptiness of cricketcalls, he notices succinctly, making her too observe his quick wit sometimes looked over. 

Misty leapt off the step onto a rock fastened centered on a riverflow, veering distancewrd to ward something, off, a rock and into the water, fast swept though still shallow enough to collect all the reflections from the passing nights.  Neither was sharp (the rock, the sky, he, she) but they all laughed in sparkle spires, or serrated spade shapes, just a stabward sliverslice. That could have been. 

maurice sendak

i think i've already been out side 4 to 9 times tonight. but in my room. just moving the peripherioal. i think new york is officially over. the krux of it. going to have to wait a year to
move though. thinkin bout it.

my neck is on fire. loaded brik the other day . for my job. concrete for a wall.
"o i got sick of you years ago. you remember the promise, i suppose."

(children running at the teacher in a yard)

my feet hurt wet. the storm outside is boring. i want dust and noise. i will be back there for a may storm in the next 2 years. with my dog, and maybe one of my brothers.

:just go to bed its 430. be right there.

For Hank : 1923-1999

his room is coverd. mountains of tobacco. leagues of sees.
"we were suppossed to be here, with this, in this, with this. us"

just before the water broke. its arrived.

she hummed enough for him to notice. past the lamp. the arrangement of flowers sucinctly laid out before his hands to poke. trying to bring enough of a grasp of hands. bees. highways. later.

there used to be a waiting where now is asphalt. the tar of so many babies that there is barely enough. an influx. mr noble comes to mind.

i came out of fairbanks ok. coked. more political. it didnt stop me. she was where volcanoes wanted to be. climbing up that little homey degradation of a shack. still somewhere to meet, a diner for rolling eyes, a fortress to penetrate.

just give up honey. aint no more where it once was. throw it away to vicksburg. turn lights down as well as covers and dont brush that dust away too too fast. there is stock here. with wood posts of glory. we cant be a forgiver. a wanderer. a fiction writer. toast.

fifteen years ago i was fifteen. coming off meals of beans. road fat. meatloaf. ketchup. 48 miles.
road sign. habitat. coloquialism. you;ll remember when i tell you tomorrow. "her arm around me feels like a lake. i want that for you too. its not a fact but a relationship in spite of itself and not hereditary." wants not. wishes the same. and hopes for things that were never his no hard matter that is tried. "good enough." out of the side of her mouth. working on belles palsey at 3 on late july early mornin.

lets give up then. follow suit. dig graves. remember. erase. constrict. rub. needle. throw.
for the tow that later succumbs. for two.

(people are seen running into a forest)

(cue spotlights with blue gels)

(cue laughter)

(cue sharpened sticks for food)

i just fell fourteen stories recently abridged by the author

Ferdinand was forever his brothers brother. over plains of heartache with the family and the job. the abuse from the wind. the sun. the terraine. the sundaies. the two step of it all. good. fair. forgiving.

Misty sat with moons crossed her legs. she still waits.

"aint nothing i aint". she spoke as she sat on benches for parks and shades of trees that she doesnt care about saving. she isnt a "green" party. she is ultimately, saliently, forever her own. and god isnt it great that she fishes that hook out of that fish's mouth. we all bless her, over prepositions of tables that we cant quite sit at.

Ferdinand mumbles over mornings. he longs for the sleep. yet.
he is content. enough. for now. He quiets himself, breaths. a sandwich. mustard.

Seventeen times it took to get the response is the exact division of how much he cared for her times the square root of 1077. there is a contemplation of numbers. distractions. additions. acquaintances. appearances. forevers. alwayses and nevers. but all of that satisfaction that is wrought to surface it all up comes across like giving money to some ol wreck at a bar without the desire to bed. oh sweet next to. god thank us for all our squalor.

i'll arrange the bet.

spring break memoirs

Sitting on a two-person hammock she swayed beneath the now-familiar sky. At first, as anyone could recall, the night sky was almost overwhelming with its unfamiliar constellations, its sometimes battalions shooting stars. But then one could find that old reliable big dipper, even like here when turned upside down. A useless vessel satisfying to all familiars... celebrate bathing; taking nothing but meteor showers for days at a time, hair left unwashed and curled like conch.

"Are you listening?" she asked aggressively to the child playing on the veranda, as away of puncturing her diatribe. 

The child, called FV (short for Ferdinand Five) would ignore its witch-watcher as usual, digging with what appeared to Misty as Mindlessness. It was, in fact, sculpted with profound ingenious activity by that young girl. Some things were meant as mysterious, so holding a small plastic shovel in blue and yellow meant for digging sand off a beach she sat, leg dangling bent at the knee over the ledge.

'If I smoke one more cigarette, I am going to have a heart attack," declared Misty to no one in particular. 

Ferdinand justified her words completely so causing the alignment radiation, perfect squares of paragraph.

Mother moaned for that teenaged feeling, and everyone could see the iced cream in perfect future. 

The past participles and we wander into the sunset, sighing. 

I think I prefer mallards

"I want to thank you," he said to her on the street walking, "for making me ----" And she smiled inside, blushed a little and thought, I want to thank you for suddenly making me a person who smiles all the time. Even inside, which is a difference surely. And, wish I could thank you aloud.

But it wasn't about anything, and all the things to articulate she wished she could find a way to. Maybe a communication blew away, and there goes a breeze through an open window by her face, so she mustered a congratulation directed at herself. For holding things in and letting them go. Searching knee deep for polaroids, because it seemed that one day they were all here, all of them, or many, and then suddenly she's knee deep in tissues and polkadot dresses and beckett plays and splatterpainted helmets, more ugly sweaters and sewing needles. She thought it strange to be covered head over foot in loved ones, falling head over heels and laughing, jumping nearly to slip and fall, and everyone all afraid of the rooftop. But not scared enough to be tantalized and cajoled into viewing a city light. And makingout up there in the fresh. Funny and lovely for them everywhere, crawling all over a body or smiling at a knee, handing a lit cigarette, passing a jar of wine, lit from below in a sweaty bed. And what's left then is just the sweat, scent of it still staining sepia on the cotton sheets, those polaroids and that truth of an actual illness well deserved. 

We find ourselves wanting to ask one another about atrocities experienced. And blisses, oh and blisses, can't we make them ourselves? Wondering quietly and just secret.

the life of a buzzard

Les steps off the curb and into the future. He backs up and goes forward following light refracted through time. He is confused. He is dicodomistic.

When he goes into sleep he is not dreaming, not awake. Les likes the word ethereal and chuckles as it scoops off his tounge into piles of snow left for dead. The state continues through wednesdays and panes of glass. Never gets its due.

When Les was four he fell off a horse on to new gravel in the road. A moment his mother had taken leave of him to survey the field. The corn was at his head, his mothers waist and all was warm with green around them on the road. The cattle could be heard but muffled by his cry as his head hit the road. Blood coming off the dust and raised up into wind. His hands immediately going toward the gash and his hair was matted with sunset.

Les wants. He needs to touch. There are no buts in his story. He likes it that way and takes a little bite out of himself to construct it in the negative.

"Just enough.", he says as he releases his breath down towards the asphalt.

to fuck an oblivion

A boy and girl were sitting next to one another but lost in a crowd. Her eyes, downcast, portrayed a hint of exaggerated sadness, but the boy semi-knew the truth so didn't placate her by dwelling on it.

The parade went by, I want to say wanna but will say want to, soundlessly, though it was infact very loud, loud as parades usually tend to be. She wanted the soundlessness for dramatic effect, inclining her feelings to him more uncomfortably. Though not unnaturally in the slightest. I think now that I'll fall in love with you, she said to herself inside, yawning casually so's to make him look up out of a corner eye. She's boring, he hummed to himself in a lie. It was easy to lie at this point. Especially when she's being so actively nondramatic about it all. 

Les: So.... 

  Misty: SO WHAT

Les: (holding his hands in front of him in defense) Hey! Whoa!.....

Misty: (imitating a horserider when he's nearly being bucked from a saddleback) WHOA! Whoooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! 

(She makes a horrible grimace forcing Les the urge to puke & scream in terror, which is half of what she wants. The other half of her wants him to grab and pull her toward him in an erotic semi-rape display.)

Les rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette.

Hey, he points to a clown in the crowd. Isn't he wearing your shirt?

She's already stabbing an eye at him. Covertly, with the other, she searches for the clown. It's damn hard to move one eye at a time... she notices. He corners her and smiles in that 5 fucking thousand dollar smile of his. 

Annoyed, she leaves. She has to check the missed connections. And there it is:

Woman in oversized basketball shoes. I was a tall man, dressed neatly in back (but that's what u would say!  ; ) We made eye contact at the Parade Today. I saw you see me see you. Hit me up girl gotta get your number

Peace, Angello

She held  her fingers to her temples and let out a brief puff of air. 

At the parade, Les sits motionless, attempting to explain the situation to a pile of tired puppies on the sidewalk. They could relate to a bitch in a second, but could he?